


i'll get you lost, but i'm having fun

by lettertotheworld



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Romance, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 20:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettertotheworld/pseuds/lettertotheworld
Summary: “Cordelia,” she says quietly, and Cordelia hums, draws her focus from the movie to look at Misty. Her gaze is as warm as the leg she has pressed against Misty’s own, and Misty’s mouth goes dry. “What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?”four times misty is a romantic train wreck + one time cordelia has mercy on her





	i'll get you lost, but i'm having fun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dontstraytoofar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontstraytoofar/gifts).



> this short fic is dedicated to jas, thank u for always being amazing and inspiring me everyday and happy valentine's day! <3

Misty tries to follow the directions in the book, but it’s an ancient translation, too messy and loaded with misappropriations; since when is orange peel conducive to anything other than potpourri? No, she’s using these instructions as a loose guide, following her instincts above all else. She adds the drop of vanilla extract to the mug of murky tea, wonders if it’s supposed to be steaming like that before she’s even boiled it. She foregoes the dried apple as well, pinches off a sprig of rosemary and tosses it in carelessly instead.

 

She leans over the mug to inhale the odor, to make sure it’s floral rather than foul, wrinkles her nose in disgust. It’s foul. _The lemon juice_ , she thinks quickly, checks the splayed open book beside her on the table. Towards the bottom of the list, the directions advise to use a dash of lemon juice to dilute any offensive scent. She’s not overly fond of the idea of drinking a rotten tea that is sure to leave a horrible taste in her mouth, so she begins squeezing lemons, takes one of the two she’d brought to the greenhouse with her and uses a dagger to split it down the middle. She lets her fist tense around it as the juice begins to trickle into her tea.

 

“Good morning, Misty.”

 

Misty startles at Cordelia’s voice, her grip slipping as the lemon careens out of her hand and into the mug. The contents splash out of the cup as the lemon sinks.

 

“Well, shit,” she mutters; that’s going to throw off the whole balance, half of her ingredients now a puddle on the table. She’s left with less than half a mug of tea, and she’s going to have to start all over again. This has taken two and a half hours to begin with. She wonders if she even has the patience.

 

“I’m sorry,” Cordelia says lightly, a soft smile on her face as she goes to reach for something above the workbench. “Should I have knocked?”

 

Misty watches Cordelia struggle to grasp the basil on the top shelf, lets herself grin before walking over to help her. She plucks it from the shelf easily, hands it over to Cordelia. Cordelia flushes, but smiles appreciatively, almost shyly.

 

“Thank you,” she tells Misty, and it’s almost not fair, Misty thinks, that they can be this close, that they are within arm’s reach of each other, and the only thing Cordelia seems to be embarrassed about is her height. Misty forgets how to take air into her lungs when Cordelia enters a room, and Cordelia is inches away from her now, unfazed. So oblivious to her effects. “What were you working on?”

 

Misty’s eyes widen a fraction, her heart building speed at the question. She feels her palms begin to sweat, itch, and thinks this is exactly why she needed that tea. It had been one for courage, to placate fear. To allow her to come forth with all of her feelings and admissions without overthinking, without backing down.

 

She’s been back from hell for a year now, and this thing between them hasn’t changed, only grows, and Valentine’s Day is in two weeks, giving her little time to prepare her heart for offering. She is desperate for a way to show Cordelia how much she means to her, desperate to take every moment between them, every lingering touch, every weighted glance, and spin it into something more tangible, something like a phrase, or a question, something like _let me romance you._ Something like _be my valentine_.

 

The words won’t come out, and the look on Cordelia’s face is expectant, patient.

 

“Uh, Madison got food poisoning,” she lies, then nods to better sell her story. “She’s…real sick. I told her I’d make her something to help.”

 

Cordelia’s expression turns mirthful as she delicately crosses her arms over her chest.

 

“Really? I just talked to her. She told me she needed basil for her three o’clock lesson.”

 

Misty’s eyes flit to the bunch of basil peeking out from Cordelia’s hand, below her elbow. She feels her cheeks warm.

 

“Weird,” she comments, and Cordelia raises her eyebrows. Misty extracts herself from the situation, walks over to the table and uses a towel to sop up the majority of her spilled tea, hopes that if she brushes it off, Cordelia will, too. She feels Cordelia watching her still, can feel her eyes on her frantic form. She slumps her shoulders, heaves a sigh of defeat.

 

“Misty—"

 

“Glad she’s feeling better,” Misty interrupts, and heads for the door, leaves the greenhouse and her mess behind.

 

 

 

 

 

Among the things Cordelia loves, Misty knows flowers to be one of them. It’s something they’d bonded quickly over, had forged a connection on: nature and the world around them. Cordelia has her greenhouse, and she tends to it with love and care, nurturing each plant like it’s her purpose. It had been one of the reasons Misty had fallen for her, and now Misty is going to use that to her advantage.

 

She hasn’t actually practiced this much, but how hard can it be, really, healing something that isn’t broken? Granted, the one time she did try it, the rose petals shot off in all directions and exploded. But it’s fine, she’s sure. It’s happening now because if it doesn’t, then it never will, and Misty is losing time. Queenie returned from the store this afternoon and told them all about the man she’d met in the produce section, how he’d asked her out to dinner for Valentine’s Day.

 

Ridiculous. It’s everywhere, absolutely everywhere, Misty can’t escape it. This holiday claims so many lonely, lovesick victims, and it won’t get to her. She won’t let it.

 

_Now_ , she thinks. _Now, or you’ll lose your nerve_.

 

She doesn’t have much nerve to begin with, but she has enough to knock on the door to Cordelia’s office. An ambitious start, she thinks. When the door opens, for the first tiny second, Cordelia is tense, lines of a frown embedded in her features. As she processes that the visitor is Misty, she softens, her eyes filling with warmth, and a smile even finds its way to her face.

 

“Hey,” Misty manages.

 

Cordelia’s smile grows wider.

 

“Is everything okay?”

 

_Nothing is okay_ , she wants to burst, feels her stomach twist into knots. _Nothing is okay, and I’m in love with you_.

 

“I just wanted to show you something,” she says instead, casually.

 

Cordelia opens the door wider, lets Misty step into her office and shuts it behind her with a click. It’s too real now, being here, doing this. She feels out of place, pressured by her own ego. Cordelia gestures for her to sit, but Misty shakes her head. If she sits, she will become glued to the furniture, will be unable to move. She needs to stand, needs to stay active and alert.

 

“Okay,” Cordelia concedes, leans against her desk and focuses all of her attention on Misty. “Show me.”

 

Misty opens her hand to reveal a small rosebud resting gently in her palm. She hones her magic, focuses her thoughts, her emotions, which is a difficult feat when Cordelia is inches away and watching her with interest, with gentle encouragement. Her skin begins to tingle, and her pulse races as the petals open up, expand, all of them pillowing out and blooming in one red flourish.

 

Cordelia’s eyes are alight with pride and awe as she takes one step closer, and Misty is overly aware of it.

 

“I already know how incredibly gifted you are,” she tells Misty softly, and Misty’s muscles strain with fight or flight reflex. “But I’m always grateful for a reminder.”

 

“No, it—it’s for you,” she forces herself to say, still on some adrenaline high that only increases when Cordelia beams at her.

 

Cordelia takes Misty’s hand—the one cradling the red rose, the universal symbol of _romance_ , for Christ’s sake—and holds gently, graciously. The contact sends Misty into overdrive, still heightened from the exertion of coaxing a flower into bloom, and she spins out, spirals.

 

The rose is sparking, scorching, and then it is engulfed in the flames, burning in her open palm.

 

She shouts, in pain, but mostly in aggravation, as she tosses the rose to the floor, wringing her hand and doubling over. Her hand throbs with a white heat so searing, it almost feels frozen, and Cordelia is panicking.

 

“ _Misty!_ What—oh, my god, here, let me…”

 

Cordelia steps on the rose, crushes it, stamps out the fire and leaves it a charred heap on the area rug in her office, then takes Misty’s wrist, surveys the blistering of her hand. Misty tugs it from her grasp, cheeks painted a bright pink.

 

“No, no, it’s fine,” she tells Cordelia, cursing under her breath and sighing shakily. “It’ll heal.”

 

“Are you okay?” Cordelia asks, her brows pinching with concern.

 

She doesn’t answer that. She just mutters another curse, storms off and heads for the door. In a fit of blind mortification, she accidentally uses her blistered hand to turn the knob and feels tears spring to her eyes at the cool touch of metal to her open flesh, bites back a cry of pain through gritted teeth as she uses her other, healthy hand to slam the door.

 

 

 

 

Misty has figured out what the problem is. She has not been direct enough. She has not been open enough. She has been expecting Cordelia to put together the half-baked pieces of her heart, to salvage the meaning of this chaos.

 

That ends today, she thinks determinedly. Misty has asked Cordelia to go to the park with her, to take a walk and be in nature, to enjoy the chilly, early February weather in New Orleans. She’s going to sit Cordelia down on a park bench, and she’s going to ask her to be her valentine, and it’s going to be romantic, and this is going to _work_ , and she is _not_ going to set anything on fire this time.

 

“I hope this isn’t some sort of date,” Cordelia teases lightheartedly as they round the corner, start down the curved asphalt that encircles the park. She awkwardly smooths her hands down her thighs over her slacks. “I didn’t really dress for it.”

 

Misty blanches at the word, _date_. It could be, she thinks, but she hadn’t intended it to be, and Cordelia is only joking, so she doesn’t put much stock in it. She is aiming for calm and collected, for reserved and romantic.

 

“You look perfect,” Misty tells her, bumps her shoulder into Cordelia’s.

 

Cordelia smiles softly at her, loops her arm around Misty’s and locks their elbows. This closely, she can smell the faint scent of Cordelia’s shampoo, can feel the heat from her skin. Her resolve threatens to displace itself, but she holds solid, lightly tenses her arm around Cordelia’s.

 

“Thank you for getting me out of the house,” Cordelia says as they take their leisurely stroll. “I was drowning, all that work, all the upkeep. I thought about running away,” she gibes wistfully, nudging Misty in her side and grinning impishly. “But this is better.”

 

“Anytime,” Misty says, feels the corners of her mouth quirk. “You deserve a break.”

 

It is a quiet day, one where the clouds are faint and the sun is bright, the sky a pure cerulean blue. It never gets very cold in Louisiana, even now, and Misty has always been grateful for that. She is grateful that the death does not happen in full, only in pieces, the few leaves form trees falling away to nothing, the grass becoming harsher, almost dried out. But it is alive, mostly. Everything is mostly alive. Misty spots it then, a vacant, wooden bench settled beneath two trees, and she leads them to it.

 

“How’s your hand?” Cordelia asks when they sit, and Misty just flushes furiously, releases a nervous chortle.

 

 “A little mud can fix anything,” she answers awkwardly, then angles in, faces towards Cordelia on the bench. Cordelia’s warmth makes it easier, and she feels less afraid, less anxious, but her nerves still flare at the thought of baring her most vulnerable self. “I have to ask you something. That’s kinda why I brought you here.”

 

Cordelia frowns softly, curiously.

 

“What is it?”

 

The world zeroes in on them right now, and everything else turns to dust, fades to black. It’s this moment, as she gathers her strength, that matters more than anything. It seems the birds have stopped chirping for them, and the park is still.

 

“I’m—”

 

“Help!” a voice cries from across the park, cutting through Misty’s fear. She feels rage now, all-consuming at being interrupted. She’s been planning this for days, and some stranger has just ruined it all, has just decided to cause a _scene_ in the middle of her romantic gesture. “Help, please! Someone call an ambulance!”

 

There is a man on the ground, clutching his chest and writhing. Cordelia stands immediately, her need to help others overtaking her, and Misty blinks, wonders if she actually is cursed. If some ancient evil has it out for her bloodline.

 

“He’s dying,” Cordelia says with concern in her voice, pleading with her eyes.

 

“Damn,” Misty sighs, rises to her feet.

 

Cordelia looks at her with bewilderment, her brows tugging together as they make their way over to the clearing. The man has stopped squirming, has stopped moving, and the woman is in hysterics. Misty leans down, kneels in the grass.

 

“He’s not breathing,” Misty says, suddenly focused, suddenly concentrated, suddenly feeling in a different way, different from moments ago. She places her hands on his face, closes her eyes, breathes for a few moments, grapples for his fleeting lifeforce.

 

“Is he—?”

 

The woman can’t seem to say the word, and Misty can sympathize with that, used to be scared of death, too. Until she learned her truth. Until she gave death the middle finger a handful of times. But she can sympathize, just shakes her head, says, “He’s gonna be alright,” and exhales deeply, lets her magic flow. In the next instant, the man is sitting up, gasping for harsh breaths as he sputters and coughs. He rubs at his chest. _A heart attack_ , Misty thinks as the woman sobs and throws her arms around him, as she stands.

 

“Misty, that—”

 

“Just another day,” Misty finishes for Cordelia with a shrug. “I think I need to go back home and lie down.”

 

It’s a lie; she feels fine, physically, but her spirits have been shot, and her plans have been thwarted. She’s feeling discouraged, like she may never truly get this right.

 

She starts walking, and Cordelia struggles to catch up to her, places a gentle hand on her arm.

 

“Wait, wait, you said you brought me here to ask me something.”

 

And she could still ask her, she supposes. She could still put it all out there like she’d hoped. But her heart wouldn’t be in it. She wants it to be solely them, no one else, no outside distractions, and she wants it to be meaningful. Not just something that is only spoken so it’s not forgotten. Misty thinks she’d rather it be forgotten than for it to be empty. So, she smiles sadly, shakes her head.

 

“It was nothing,” she assures Cordelia, and she keeps walking.

 

 

 

 

 

Her patience with herself is wearing thin. If she can’t seem to let Cordelia know how she feels within the next week, she’s going to have to chalk it up as a loss. She has no idea how Cordelia feels, but all of this was supposed to go so smoothly, was supposed to go off without a hitch, and there have been _several_ hitches. Misty just wants to talk to her, to open her heart and lay everything out where it belongs.

 

Misty is going to tell her.

 

She plans a movie night for just the two of them, setting up the television in the living room and queuing up a film on the screen, some cheesy romance that she’d found in a rush. She prepares a comically large bowl of popcorn and places it on the center of the table, then changes her mind, moves it to the corner, then back to the center.

 

“What are you doing?” Cordelia asks from the doorway, an intrigued smile on her face.

 

“I thought we could watch a movie,” she says lamely with a shrug. _Not that the movie matters_ , she wants to say. _I just need to talk, but I’m a coward_.

 

“That sounds wonderful,” Cordelia says, always accommodating, even if Misty has been strange and distant; it’s because she is overwhelmed, and it’s because she’s not sure how to express herself in a way that is worthy of Cordelia’s attention.

 

They settle in, and the movie begins, and it’s bad already, has hardly progressed beyond the opening title sequence, and Misty already knows it’s dumb, that this is dumb. But Cordelia’s thigh is pressed to hers from where she sits next to her, warmth seeping right to her bones, and she wants so badly for this to pan out. She wants so badly for this to be right.

 

“Cordelia,” she says quietly, and Cordelia hums, draws her focus from the movie to look at Misty. Her gaze is as warm as the leg she has pressed against Misty’s own, and Misty’s mouth goes dry. “What are you doing for Valentine’s Day?”

 

She keeps her tone light, discreet, and Cordelia takes on a thoughtful expression, mulling over the question.

 

“I don’t guess I’m doing much of anything,” Cordelia answers, shrugs her shoulders lightly. “Maybe I’ll take a page out of your book and indulge in a romantic comedy.”

 

Misty snorts softly, shakes her head; this isn’t her idea of Valentine’s Day. She wants to tell Cordelia that. Wants to let her know that this is only the precursor, the setup. But she finds herself too withdrawn to do that.

 

“How do you feel about it?” she asks.

 

“Valentine’s Day? I think it often gets taken advantage of,” she tells Misty, looks like the gears in her head are still turning even after her answer. “Why?” Cordelia asks, then her eyes shine in the darkness of the room. “How do you feel about it?”

 

But Misty just shakes her head, dismisses it; this isn’t about her.

 

“What do you mean?” she asks, her interest piqued. “Who takes advantage of it?”

 

Cordelia emits a soft laugh and shifts uncomfortably, a blush rising to her cheeks at having to elaborate.

 

“I don’t know. I guess…I guess people who see it as an obligation, or as a holiday.”

 

Misty’s brows furrow, and her lips quirk down into a frown. _But it is a holiday_ , she wants to insist. It’s a holiday that she’s never felt one way or another about, has never liked or disliked it, until now. Now she has a very strong opinion on it, and that opinion revolves around Cordelia, around the love she has for her that has become so much more than just a feeling. It’s a part of her now, and she wears it like armor, like her rings or her shawls. It protects her from darkness, and it is begging to be set free.

 

“What else is it?” Misty asks, has to know, needs to learn Cordelia’s thoughts so she can care for them.

 

Cordelia pushes a breath from her lungs, tucks her legs under her and turns in to face Misty, shifts closer. She props her elbow on the back of the sofa and leans her head into her hand.

 

“An opportunity to feel,” she tells Misty.

 

Misty is transfixed, mesmerized by Cordelia’s words, by the light the television casts on her face in the dark, and she finds herself nodding along in agreement. Hearts can’t be weighed and measured, she thinks. They can only be presented. They can only be shown.

 

She angles inward, lets her knee press to Cordelia’s, feels her own pulse jump.

 

“Feel what?”

 

Cordelia smiles, lopsided and barely there, but Misty notices. Misty always notices the small things about her, thinks that is where all the emotion is.

 

“All of it,” Cordelia answers quietly. “All of the good things. Just for one day.”

 

Misty is so interested, wants to ask _more_ , wants to _know more_ , but is too enamored to speak. She watches Cordelia study her face, searching for something, maybe, and Misty hope she finds it. _It’s here_ , she wants to tell Cordelia. _Whatever you’re looking for, it’s here_.

 

Cordelia looks like she may say something, her eyes flickering to Misty’s lips as she opens her mouth to speak, and Misty leans in, anticipation crawling through her veins.

 

“We’re back, bitches,” Madison’s voice rings out, then, “Why is it so dark in here?”

 

Madison flips the switch, illuminating them in light, and comes to sit in the chair diagonal from them. Zoe and Queenie file in through the front door and join her, and Zoe grabs the big bowl of popcorn from the table, shoves a handful into her mouth.

 

“Oh, hell yeah, what movie are we watching?” Queenie asks, taking a seat on the couch beside Misty.

 

Misty blinks at her, the blissfully intimate moment sliced to bits by their intrusion. From beside her, Cordelia clears her throat, seems only annoyed that the girls have barged in on their night together, but not bothered by it, not nearly as infuriated as Misty, who is silently teeming with rage.

 

“Misty picked it out,” Cordelia responds with a small smile directed at Misty, places her hand on Misty’s thigh and squeezes lightly.

 

“Ugh, god, this sucks,” Madison says, scrunching her face in disgust. “Hand me the remote.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Misty shouts, and the room goes still, silence enveloping the air around them. There are four sets of eyes on her now. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, and she lets out a ragged breath. Cordelia eyes her with concern, her face fallen, etched with pity, almost. “I’m…”

 

This can’t get any _worse_ , really, so she’s not sure why she’s so hesitant to say anything. It’s not like she had told anyone of her plans. She can’t expect them to understand, not when she has kept to herself about all of this. Not only does she not get to have her talk with Cordelia now, but she has made a complete fool of herself.

 

They just want to watch a movie, so she will let them.

 

When she stands to leave, Cordelia says her name as a plea, reaches for her hand, but she brushes it off, makes her escape before she can do further damage.

 

 

 

 

 

Giving up on something is a lot more difficult to cope with when that something is a someone. It’s over now, Misty thinks, all of her attempts in vain, all of her hopes put to rest by her complacency. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, and after her outburst, Misty had decided to call it quits, that she’s just not capable of making the big, romantic gesture, and that maybe Cordelia doesn’t even want her to anyway. It’s a tough pill to swallow, and she does mope about it, so dejected every day leading up to now. She’s just resigned by this point, accepting her defeat.

 

Everyone else around her can have their fun and their dates, and she will be here, right here at the academy, longing for something she never even knew she wanted until so recently.

 

She trudges up the steps on the way to her bedroom, on her way back from the greenhouse, where not even being surrounded by all that life could fill this hollow feeling of failure in her heart. It was asking too much, probably, and it wasn’t fleshed out enough, hadn’t been comprised of very intricate parts. It had just been Misty, her feelings, and a dream, and that is not enough for something like this. Cordelia deserves more than conceptual love, more than stupid, incomplete strategies.

 

When she opens the door to her room, she is struck with the startling realization that it is in a much different state than she’d left it. The only soft light comes from a string of candles on the bedside table, varying in size, but not in flame. They all burn in stark contrast to the darkness of the room, and there are crimson rose petals littering the duvet, covering it haphazardly, scattered at random. Cordelia stands by the foot of the bed, like she has been waiting, and she smiles at Misty, the light from the candles flickering and shadowing her features.

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Cordelia says softly, delicately, and Misty’s heart lodges in her throat, overcome by the gesture, by the emotion it incites within her. She feels a grin spread across her face, feels a warm blush creep onto her cheeks as tears overwhelm her and brim her eyes. She huffs out a laugh, rubs her hands over her face in embarrassment.

 

“Oh, god,” she says with a sigh. “Oh, I spent all that time…”

 

She wants to feel silly, for overthinking so severely, for building this up into something it didn’t have to be. Cordelia has taken such an easy road, and it means so much more, because it is not overcompensating. It is simple, and it came from her, and Misty’s hands twitch by her sides, aching to pull Cordelia into an embrace, aching to touch her, to feel her.

 

“I could tell something was bothering you,” Cordelia admits, and Misty’s flush deepens. “You’ve been so nervous,” she says shyly, as if she finds it endearing. “You set a flower on fire in my office.”

 

Misty pales at the memory, takes a few steps closer, and Cordelia meets her in the middle.

 

“Can we not go there?” she asks, and Cordelia laughs lightly, reaches out to take Misty’s hands in her own. “It’s not exactly my proudest moment.”

 

“I loved it,” Cordelia insists, rubs the tips of her fingers over Misty’s knuckles. “I love how much you care.” She drops one of Misty’s hands to slide her fingers through Misty’s hair, reaching the base of her skull, cupping the back of her neck. “I care, too.”

 

“Yeah,” Misty breathes mirthfully on a laugh, gestures to the bed, the candles. “Wouldn’t have been able to tell.”

 

Cordelia’s rebuttal comes in the form of a soft mouth against her own, capturing Misty’s lips, her hand tensing at the back of Misty’s neck, blunt nails biting into her scalp. Misty’s hands come to rest at Cordelia’s elbows, holding her closely, delicately. She sighs blissfully into the kiss, and Cordelia tilts her head, deepens it. Misty’s fingers tighten around her arms, then move to slide down her sides, catching her waist. She pulls Cordelia against her, their fronts pressing together as Cordelia’s tongue brushes over Misty’s bottom lip.

 

Misty smiles against her lips, breaks the kiss to rest her forehead against Cordelia’s.

 

“What?” Cordelia wonders, her hands coming to cradle Misty’s face, thumbs gently grazing her cheeks.

 

“I’ve never had a valentine before,” she answers quietly, body and soul humming with joy, and Cordelia’s eyes soften as she presses a chaste kiss to Misty’s lips.

 

“Now you do,” Cordelia tells her, a giddy smile spreading to her face. “This year and every year after.”

 

When Misty crushes her lips to Cordelia’s, she thinks she never really needed any wildly overt gesture to spill her heart. Cordelia understands her, always, and just this would have been enough. Just this is enough.


End file.
